


That's What This Must Be

by glasvegi



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Amputee Dick Simmons, Eye Trauma, M for language and not really kinda sexual content, M/M, One Shot, Reincarnation, Trans Dick Simmons, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-14
Updated: 2015-12-14
Packaged: 2018-05-06 16:16:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5423654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glasvegi/pseuds/glasvegi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dexter Grif knows Dick Simmons. Or, he knew him. He doesn't know how, or when, but he knew him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That's What This Must Be

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from The Harold Song by Kesha, which inspired this fic. it's a great song and i recommend listening to it.

Grif was staring at Simmons. Not out of the corner of his eye, not subtly, but head on staring at him. His brows were furrowed as he looked right at his co-worker.

“What is it? Stop looking at me like that.”

“Nothing. Just… You look familiar.”

Simmons rolled his eyes. “Yeah, we’ve been working together for a month. I’d be more concerned if you didn’t know who I was. Though not surprised,” he said, tone turning dark.

“No, like, could I have met you before? At a party or something?” Grif stopped, snickering. “Wait, I forgot who I’m talking to.”

Picking up his coffee, Simmons used his free hand to give Grif the finger.

“Fuck off, I’ve gone to parties. None that you would’ve been invited to.”

“And I’m sure that your sixth birthday was wonderful.”

Drinking his coffee, Simmons continued to flip Grif off.

“I think it’s your eyes. I know I’ve seen them before.”

“Well…” Simmons set his cup down back down on the desk, then reached up and popped out his right eye. “Maybe you’ve seen this one.” He extended his arm, waving it in Grif’s face. It wasn’t circular; a curved piece of plastic with a photo-realistic, unmoving iris and pupil stared back at him.

He batted at Simmons' hand, gagging, until it was out of his face and back in Simmons' head. Grif kept his eyes squeezed shut until he was sure there would be no more empty eye sockets.

“What’s up with that?”

“Accident a few years ago. It’s how I got this scar, too.” He gestured to the line that ran down the right side of his face. “Happened when I lost my leg.”

Grif’s mouth fell open, crumbs falling onto his shirt. “You’re missing a leg?!?”

“You never noticed I have one leg? What the fuck, Grif!”

“I’ve never seen you wear shorts.”

Simmons threw his arms up. “I was wearing shorts yesterday!”

“Whatever, Simmons.” Lacing his fingers behind his head, Grif tipped back in his chair. The phone on the desk in front of them started to ring, and he made no move to pick it up.

“I know I would remember you if we have met. I never forget a face,” Simmons said, picking up the handset.

“I can’t explain it, dude. I just know I’ve met you or something.”

“You’re so full of shit,” Simmons whispered, covering the mouthpiece with his hand. He ran through the regulation greeting in a cheery voice, pulling a pad and pencil closer. After another minute, Simmons hung up

“Management,” he said. Grif nodded.

He wrote on the paper, checked it off, crumbled the paper, and stuck the carbon copy in a manilla folder.

“So unnecessary.”

“This could be important!” Simmons reached for the folder, but Grif grabbed it, reading off the latest message.

“We’ll really fall to shit as a company if we don’t remember to ‘outsell the competition, do better, and try harder.’ Great job, Simmons. Really helping out.”

“Maybe if I knew what we actually did here, I could be making a difference, instead of sitting behind this desk with you or Donut all day answering calls from management! _What are they managing?_ ” Simmons looked like he was about ready to pull his hair out.

“Hey, sometimes you sit here with Sarge.” Grif looked up at his coworker. “So you don’t know what we’re doing here either?”

“Nope. But at least it pays well. Finally, paid overtime,” said Simmons, smiling towards the Stucco ceiling.

“You work more than forty hours a week? Nerd.”

“Some of us are paying for school; I’m getting my Master’s.”

“Just go to a dungeon like everyone else. I’m sure Donut would be happy to show you around for free.” Grif swung his feet up onto the desk, ignoring Simmons’ outrage at the motion. “You’re hopeless.”

  


 

Grif woke up to his dark bedroom and sore muscles. Rolling over to check the time on his phone, he groaned at the stiffness in his back, rivets of pain digging into his spine as he moved his neck.

When his eyes stopped burning at the screen’s light, he focused on the numbers in front of him.

Four fucking thirty.

Grif rolled back over and buried his face in his pillow, trying not to think about how many hours he had until he had to get up and go to work.

Flashes of his dreams, too short to mean anything, replayed behind his eyes. Glimpses of light, running feet and music, and…

_“Dex! Hurry up!”_

_Simmons, running, hand around his wrist. They’re laughing, panting, music getting louder. It’s a song he knows, he loves it, the words run through is body, thumping in the ground with their steps, Simmons laughing, pulling him along._

_Simmons stepping on his hands. hauling over the fence. He’s on the other side, reaching for Grif, telling him to go over._

_Grif jumps, grabs the fence, and he’s scrabbling, metal digging in and he throws himself, falling and back on his feet, running._

 

Grif’s alarm blared into the silence. He dismissed it and threw an arm over his face.

That wasn’t Simmons in his dream. It didn’t look anything like him; the guy in his dream was his height, dark moppy hair and not a single freckle. Nothing like the gangly, clean cut and spotted ginger he knew.

But… In the dream, Grif wasn’t himself, either. He was thinner, his skin was lighter, and he was actually having a good time with Simmons.  Grif looked down to confirm that yes, he still had a few spare tires around his waist and his skin was still the familiar brown.

It was him and Simmons, though. Grif knew. He couldn’t say how, but he did.

He had the same eyes.

  


 

“You know what this means, right?”

Grif looked over at his sister, who was throwing back another shot. He grabbed the bottle, intending only to move it out of her reach, but ended up pouring himself another drink. He grunted, and she kept talking.

“This guy’s in all your dreams, and not, like, hot ones? You’re into this guy. Like, way into him. You’re basically inside him.”

Grif braced himself as Tucker sidled up next to Kai, undoubtedly to butt in with something stupid.

“Bow chicka- Ow! Hey, you guys make it way too easy.” Tucker rubbed at a spot on his ribs, a bruise welling where Kai’s elbow had found him.

Grif’s phone vibrated in his pocket. He excused himself and walked to the front of the bar to answer the call. He didn’t recognize the number, but he couldn’t be bothered to save everyone’s contact information these days.

“What?”

He heard Sarge’s voice faintly on the other end, saying something about a dirt nap and a yellow-bellied something, but he didn’t feel like trying to parse it out, and the tequila made sure of that.

“Donut needs you to cover him tonight. Can you come?” Simmons’ voice was particularly flat tonight, completely devoid of anything close to hope.

Grif swore he heard Tucker say another “bow chicka bow wow,” but he was probably imagining things. He took a breath before responding.

“Simmons. I hope you know my answer to ‘can you do anything’ is always no, but right now? Especially right fucking now? No.”

There was a rush of static as Simmons sighed into the phone. “Donut has food poisoning and Sarge is leaving. So either you come in, or Sarge will station himself wherever you are when his shift ends.”

Grif’s head lowered, hearing Sarge still raving in the background. There was a rustle, then Simmons’ voice.

“Sir, I am on the phone with him. Right now. If you could just be- No, you don’t have to… Hold on.”

Simmons’ voice was clearer as he spoke to Grif, curt and clipped. “So are you coming in to fill Donut’s shift? It starts in an hour.”

“Simmons?” Grif grinned. “I’m gonna need a ride.”

“Shit, he’s drunk, sir.” Even through the phone, Grif could tell Simmons’ was frantically nodding, which meant he was doing something he would definitely regret following through.

“I’m leaving here now. Don’t drink any more, just tell me what shitstained place I’m picking you up at. And if you fucking puke in my car, you’re buying me a new one.”

Grif told him the name of the bar. He thought about going back over to Kai and Tucker and pounding as many shots as he could before Simmons got there, but he didn’t. He wanted to remember this.

  
  


 

_Grif’s car, dark, so dark, no lights anywhere, and he’s laying in the back seat, Simmons pressed underneath him._

_He leans in, Simmons is warm and chapped lips and fingers pulling the shirt off his shoulders. Fingers running down his waist and unbuttoning and reaching and teasing and oh my god._

_Grif rocks into the touch, breathing the only sound, hands shaking, fumbling on buttons and zippers and gripping Simmons, holding on, always Simmons._

_He buries his head in Simmons' neck, breathing deep and fingers in hair and one hand sliding down his chest and…_

“Grif? What’s up?”

“Nothing,” Grif said. His voice was a squeak, and he dug his nails into his leg. “And mind your own goddamn business.”

His temples were throbbing, sobriety creeping up with every thought.

“I was until you came running through here like that. When you run, something has to be wrong.”

“I had to use the bathroom, god, Simmons.” He started to walk again, hoping he’d make it to the bathroom without having to turn around. He did not wear rigid enough pants today to deal with this.

“Were you sleeping in the store room?”

“Woke up with morning wood.”

Simmons lowered his newspaper. “It’s 11 PM.”

“Whatever.”

 

Grif closed the bathroom door behind him, pushing his pants down to his knees as he slid the lock over. He let himself forget what it meant as he brought the dream to the front of his mind.

After he came, wiping up anything he might have to explain later, Grif closed his eyes.

Simmons. Always Simmons.

He sighed, heaving himself to his feet.

“Well, shit.”

He flushed the cum-stained tissue and left the bathroom.

 

“Did you just jerk off in the bathroom?”

“Suck my dick, Simmons.” Grif picked up his co-workers phone from the desk, wiping his hands on the touch screen.

“You better have washed your hands, asshole.”

“You know I didn’t.”

Simmons sighed, folding his newspaper in half before setting it down. “ I know,” he said, pulling a pack of Wet Wipes out of his pocket, pulling one out, and grabbing the phone from Grif’s hands.

“That’s gonna destroy your phone.” Simmons vigorously wiped at the phone’s screen before moving onto the buttons.

“It’s a Samsung, bitch. Virtually indestructible.” He threw the wipe at Grif, who got up and wiped his hands down his coworker’s face.

Grif settled back into his seat, dozing off over the sounds of Simmons cursing him all the way to the bathroom.

 

 

 

“Grif! You’re sleeping on the job again? This can’t go unpunished. And I know I’m up to do some punishing.”

“Franklin, can you just fuck off? I came in during my weekend to cover your ass and I do not have enough shits to give right now.”

“My ass really did need covering, thank you, but I told you, call me Donut!”

“I am not calling you that. FDR would be ashamed.”

“Maybe I should call Sarge and let him know you’re slacking. You know how he feels about that.”

“Yeah, well we know how he feels about me. Just… I haven’t been sleeping. Keep having these dreams.”

Donut leaned closer, resting his head on his hands. “Ooh, tell me! And don’t even think about leaving out the juicy details.”

“What the fuck, not that kind of dream.” Grif took a swig of his energy drink, emptying the can. Some good that did. “It’s like, World War II or something. And Simmons is always there, but it’s not really him.”

“Simmons? That’s-”

“Shut up, I’m not done. But I’m not really me either, and there’s all this shit we get into and just hang out but we get drafted or something and get deployed and he…. He always….” His voice cracked, and he prayed Donut didn’t notice.

Grif threw the can towards the garbage can, turning his head to watch as it bounced of the side of the can and clattered to the ground. He blinked, willing the wetness in the corners of his eyes to evaporate.

He felt a nudge on his shoulder, and turned his head to find Donut holding out a tissue towards him. Grif ignored him, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.

“It’s so fucking stupid, it’s so stupid, but it’s so real, you know?”

“You know what? You should talk to Doc about this. He’s very interested in dream analysis, and I think he’s heard enough of mine.”

Grif let himself imagine that for a second and shuddered.

“Donut, I don’t want to talk to your- Doc about this.”

“Still there, Doc? Yeah, did you get all that? Great! Here’s Grif.” Donut unplugged the headphones from around his neck and thrust his phone over.

“You were on the phone this whole fucking time and you’re giving me shit about not working? W- Hey, Doc.” Grif leaned back, rubbing at his temples with his free hand, hopefully offsetting the inevitable headache. Talking to Doc was never helpful.

“Hey, Grif! So these dreams- do they feel familiar? Like it’s something that’s really happened, maybe in a past life?”

“Oh my god.’

“Because if so, this sounds like a classic case of-”

Grif handed the phone back to Donut, walking past him to the back room.

 

He sat down on a shipping crate, shaking with the memory he knows isn’t real, he knows can’t have happened, but a sob rose in his throat anyways.

 

_“Simmons?”_

_Turning around, shells firing, vibrating, ringing._

_“Simmons?”_

_He can’t hear his own voice, can’t see, can’t._

_“Simmons!”_

_His throat rattles and burns._

_“Dex.”_

_He kneels down, brushes a hand across his cheek, blood and water._

_“Dex….”_

_“Richard.”_

_He’s falling, onto Simmons, into Simmons, always Simmons. Blasts kick up debris, stinging._

_“Dick.”_

_And he’s gone._

 

 

 

 

Grif started keeping a list of what he remembered when the memories stopped coming to him in dreams. He was in line at the grocery store, shitty energy drinks and junk food in hand, when he could smell the greasy diner food, neon lights that made a halo above Simmons’ head as he gestured emphatically with one hand, the other holding one of Grif’s under the table.

He pulled out his phone and typed a quick “diner w/Simmons, worried”. As he shoved it back in his pocket, he tried to place where they had been, and when.

The list was full of places, vague descriptions and the odd emoji by the time Grif had enough.

He went into work restless and shifty, casting furtive glances towards Simmons. Finally, his co-worker turned towards him, demanding an explanation.

“What the fuck, Grif? You haven’t said anything for, like, an hour, and you keep fucking looking at me! What is it?”

“I know you.”

Simmons’ mouth opened, an incredulous noise falling out.

“No, I mean... “ Grif searched for the words. “I knew you. When you weren’t who you are now, and I wasn’t me, we knew each other. Before.”

“This isn’t funny anymore,” Simmons said between gritted teeth. “Before I moved here, I was across the country. You didn’t know I’m an amputee, which you would know if you knew me. You don’t. You don’t know me!”

“I knew you a long time ago, Simmons! Decades ago, before these versions of us existed. I knew you, I know it.”

“There’s no way that’s possible!”

“I know how fucking crazy I sound right now, but i really, really do not care. Okay, Simmons? ‘Cause I know we- we snuck into a Rolling Stones concert. I know we were drafted and we fought in World War II, I know we fought in high school God knows when and I know we fucked in my car; I know it. And I know when we did all this shit, I loved you, but I never said it. You don’t have to believe me. But don’t… Don’t you remember anything? Any of this?”

Simmons licked his lips, looking at the floor. “I’m… Sorry?”

Grif stood up. He needed a cigarette, a drink, anything to keep him from thinking about the Simmons he had in his head, the Simmons he knew was there somewhere inside the man in front of him.

“Can you tell me about it?”

Startled out of his thoughts, Grif looked down at Simmons. His brow was furrowed, but he was smiling.

“I want to hear it. About… Me, I guess.”

“What’dya want to hear?” Grif let out a breath, and he realized he’d been holding it.

Simmons shrugged. “Everything?”

“In one, you were a chick.” Grif sat back down.

“I bet,” Simmons said, laughing.

“You weren’t hot.”

“Oh, I bet.”

  


 

When Simmons kissed him, Grif was dizzy with all the old touches that ghosted across his body. But he brushed them off, waving away their past.

What he had right then was so much better.

 

 

 

 

“Grif?”

He raised his head away from the marks he had been biting into Simmons’ skin. “What?’

“I have to tell you,” Simmons gasped as Grif’s hands continued to slide up his legs. “Come on, stop it, stop.”

Grif sat back, pulling his hands away. “What is it?” Concern furrowed his brow when he saw just how scared Simmons looked.

Just as Grif opened his mouth to say that whatever it was, it was fine, Simmons blurted out,

“It’s not like I’ve been lying to you.”

And he pulled his t-shirt over his head.

Two scars like stitches ran across his chest, underlining his pecs. Grif didn’t realize he was reaching out his hands out until Simmons grabbed them, holding them away from his chest.

“So you’ve got more scars? From that accident?”

Simmons stared back at him, incredulous.

“You know what these are, right?”

Grif shrugged.

“They’re from my top surgery?”

Simmons stared, looking for any sign that Grif was catching on.

“I used to have breasts?”

Realization etched itself across Grif’s face. “So you’re…”

“Yeah. Is that,” Simmons shifted away, fingers picking absentmindedly at the threads of his jeans. “Like, is that a deal-breaker-y kind of thing?”

Grif scooted closer. resting his hands on either side of Simmons’ torso.

“Simmons, this is the least deal breaker thing you’ve told me.”

“You still haven’t taken a look at my database.” Simmons smiled slightly, and Grif leaned in to place a light kiss on the line of his jaw.

“Let’s not talk about that. Ever.”

Simmons turned his head back and pressed a kiss to Grif’s nose, his cheek, his lips. Then he pushed Grif back until he was lying on the futon and climbed onto him, straddling his lap. When Simmons leaned down, he kissed Grif roughly, teeth clashing for a moment until they found a rhythm, pulling apart only to breathe.

Grif reached for the hem of his shirt and Simmons grabbed the fabric, pulling it over his head as Grif sat up. He pulled Simmons closer, nipping at his bottom lip. He ground his crotch against his boyfriend’s, four layers between them. Simmons pressed into it, pulling his head back to mouth at Grif’s neck.

“Did I-” His breath hitched as Simmons bit into his skin, pressing his tongue against the bruises- “Ever tell you about my first girlfriend?”

  


 

They found a rhythm of staying over at each other’s places, cooking dinners (or ordering dinner for both of them in Simmons’ case; three smoke alarms smashed was too many) and falling to bed. It was natural; it came so easily to both of them, and, according to Simmons, it “has nothing to do with your weird reincarnation thing, Grif. We’re just compatible.”

Grif humors him.

  


 

 

“Hey, you’re awake.”

Simmons shifted, grimacing at the sunlight. “No I’m not. I am fast asleep.”

“And this is all a dream.”

“Exactly.” Simmons leaned into the arm Grif had wrapped around his torso, burying his face into his pillow. His voice was muffled when he spoke; Grif wasn’t sure he’d heard anything.

“I kept having these dreams.”

Grif just rubbed circles into Simmons' side, closing his eyes.

“You were there and we were, like somewhere weird. And you looked different.”

Grif sat up, jostling his boyfriend as he pulled his arm away.

“So you’re saying-”

Simmons sighed loudly, flopping onto his back and rubbing at his eyes.

“No, I’m not saying it’s your stupid past lives theory. You just talk about it so much it’s gotten into my head.”

 

Grif woke to night outside the window and Simmons’  shoulders shaking. A stifled, choking sound came from his throat, and Grif reached over to pull him closer.

Simmons turned around, pressing his face into Grif’s shirt.

“You were, you were gone, I was… And I couldn’t find you I-”

A violent sob cut him off and all Grif could do was hold him.

He knew this. He knew how real it felt, how much he didn’t want to go back to sleep so he wouldn’t have to see that again, all the blood and people falling around him and the panic.

He rested a hand on Simmons’ head, carding it slowly through his hair.

When Simmons finally fell back asleep, Grif let himself cry.

 

 

 

Grif tuned out the barrage of insults Sarge had hand-picked for the day, staring at the phone. If it rang, he could at least fuck with Simmons while he took the call.

In addition to Sarge hanging around after his shift “fer quality control” and Simmons in his usual place at the desk next to Grif, Donut was hanging around to straighten up the storeroom, a phrase Grif had more than a little trouble with. Donut could certainly make it neater, but he couldn’t possibly make anything straight.

The increase in numbers made the small office space feel cramped, and Grif was hoping that if he watched the door long enough, somebody would leave through it.

“Grif! Quit lollygagging and get a move on! Those reports aren’t gonna put those little flag stickers next to the signature lines themselves!”

“Yes, Sir,” he sighed, pulling a pile of documents closer.

“Sometimes I wonder why we even keep you around,” Sarge said, a wistful look in his eye.

“I wonder the same thing every day, Sir,” Simmons said.

He squeezed Grif’s hand under the desk.

“Brown noser,” Grif muttered.

“Lard-ass.” Simmons smiled and interlaced their fingers. “Just make all our lives easier and quit.”

“I wish I could, Simmons, but I can’t,” Grif said. “I always just keep coming back.”

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! 
> 
> my tumblr is four7niner.tumblr.com


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